Welcome to the first chapter of Raise Me Up, the story of Nash Kettern, a man who has hit rock bottom. I would love to hear any thoughts that you have on it.
Thank you to Amenti for the wonderful cover, and everyone at the Sims2 Writer's Hangout for their invaluable advice.
This story is not graphic, but does deal with some touchy issues. Read at your own risk. :)

First impressions are made in the first few seconds of glancing at a person. Imagine that-the clothes you chose to wear this morning and the way you did your hair is your billboard, telling everyone you meet what type of person you are. Why do we judge people by how they dress? Is it because it's just so much faster and easier than taking the time to get to know them? Or maybe it's because we, at least in most cultures, dress to give a certain impression? Is that it? Is it true that clothes make the man? Or maybe it's the haircut, or how well they accessorize.

Take this man, for example. Do you see him standing here, stripped, a blank canvas? Now let's cover him with what we as a society have deemed necessary to be civilized, and see what that tells us about what kind of man he is.

Look at this, an expensive designer label suit. We can't forget the sixty dollar haircut and the Ray Ban sunglasses. But still, this just doesn't seem quite right. He needs the proper setting to go with his new outfit.

Look at him now! Doesn't he look the respectable sort, the type you'd be glad to have for your neighbor or maybe play a few rounds of golf with? You see, he's Somebody; you can tell that just by the shine on his shoes. He has a place in this world. If he died tomorrow, there would be a lengthy obituary in the paper and weeping masses at his funeral. Flowers would be left at his grave. People would remember.

Now let's take this same man and change him around a bit. Take away the fancy haircut, the expensive ensemble, the shiny shoes. Now we'll dress him in a very different style. The pants he's wearing cost $4.50 at the Goodwill. That probably sounds like a joke, but to him $4.50 means the difference between eating and not eating. The shirt and vest were in good condition once, but after a few years of being worn often and washed seldom, they look bad and smell worse.

He doesn't accessorize with an IPod or fancy sunglasses. Instead, he carries his threadbare pack with him everywhere. It contains all of his worldly possessions. He doesn't live in a condo, a house, or even a cheap apartment in the bad part of town. He sleeps on park benches, in alleys, in doorways to stay out of the rain. Now what do you think of him? Is he the type you cross the street to avoid? Would you pretend not to see his outstretched hand as you went by him?

Then again, why should anybody care? It was his own bad choices that led him here, to this grimy sidewalk, his dignity sold for whatever small change he can hustle from passersby. It's so easy to judge, to glide on by with our noses in the air. After all, that could never be you...right?

In case you haven't figured it out yet, the man standing in this filthy alleyway is me.
This is my story.

I guess you're expecting one of those tired stories where I was a neglected kid with a drug addicted mother and an absentee father, growing up without resources, expectations, boundaries, or even love. Well...you're right. My story is common, but still mine, all the same.

My mom did the best she could, in her own way, but there was always something standing between me and her, like her daily trips to the bar. Eventually, the days she spent drunk seemed like a sweet dream compared to the nightmare ahead. She had discovered heroin. Once you go down that road, it's almost impossible to find your way back again. Heroin has a way of emptying a person from the inside out, until the only desire left is to get another fix.

What little self-control she had was gone. There were nights where she didn't come home at all, and days she didn't come home alone. She never seemed to care what type of man was with her, as long as there was one. I couldn't do anything for her; certainly couldn't fill the empty hole in her life, and that left me at the bottom of her list of priorities.

I guess I wasn't the only person who noticed that. When I was nine, I was taken away from my mother and put in a foster home. I was told at first that it was just temporary; that they would help my mom with her problems and then I could go home. It never happened. I saw her a couple of times at my social worker's office, then one day the worker told me that I wouldn't see her anymore but maybe some nice people would want to adopt me. That never happened either.

I lost count of the number of foster homes I was in. After a while, the faces all started to look the same, and I didn't bother to memorize the names, knowing soon they'd all change anyway. By the time I was fifteen I'd run away three times, gotten into plenty of fights, and been expelled from school. I'd also discovered music. I'd managed to keep an afterschool job long enough to buy my first guitar. It was my lifeline. When I played, all the bad stuff melted away.

Music wasn't the only constant in my life though. The other was alcohol. I'd had my first taste at thirteen; a tequilia shooter in a friend's basement. I gagged down the acrid tasting drink thinking that it was the foulest concoction on Earth. After I'd had a few more though, my problems started washing away like debris on a beach at high tide. From that day, I was hooked.

From time to time I'd experiment with drugs too, but whenever I was tempted to try the harder stuff my mother's face would come into my head. The dead look in her eyes the day I was taken from her-I never wanted to be like that. So I stuck with vodka-or whiskey-or whatever else was handy, and told myself it wasn't as bad. After awhile, I even believed it.

As I grew older and more problematic, it became harder and harder to find families willing to take me in. It was probably a relief for all involved when I stole the truck belonging to my latest foster family and headed south. No one ever came looking for me, anyway. From then on, I was on my own.

I traveled from city to city, working odd jobs, occasionally hooking up with someone I met at a party or just around. Like my mother before me, I wasn't picky, as long as I'd get a place to sleep for a while, but it never worked out.

I'm the first to admit I know less than nothing about maintaining a relationship. I couldn't even get the most casual of friendships off the ground, much less keep a woman happy. I'd get wasted and forget to show up for a couple of days, or I'd just say the wrong thing, call her the wrong name in bed even, and it was back on the road for me.

No matter how far I travelled, I always ended up back in Portland, my hometown. Los Angeles may have been warmer, Chicago more cultured, and New York the center of everything but Portland always called me home like a beautiful woman crooking her finger at a lonely man. It smelled like coffee, roses, and rain swirled together, full of street musicians, aging hippies, and idealistic college students handing out flyers on every corner. For better or worse, it was the only place I could call home.

For a while I earned money playing my guitar for tips, but after a while, the meager amount I made wasn't enough to pay for all the booze I was going through. I tried working again but most mornings I couldn't shake off my hangover early enough to show up on time.. After being fired repeatedly I lost what little pride I had left and starting panhandling. By the time I was nearing thirty the streets were my life. I couldn't remember what it was like to wake up in a bed, or have anyone to wonder where I was.

And that's where my story really begins, on a day that should have been just like any other. It was one of those rare March days where the sun has finally broken through after months of grey. People from warmer climates don't understand the effect those early spring days have on us northerners. After months of drizzling, dreary clouds you almost forget that ball of warmth of light exists.

The suddenly it's casting its glow across the city, shining right in your eyes, and well..people get a little delirious. I was at St. John's Park, watching the people with a kind of dumbstruck awe. It may have been 65 degrees with a goosebump inducing wind, but damn it, it was sunny for once and the locals would not be stopped. They paraded by in their short sleeves, bikini tops, and backless dresses as if this were the last sunny day on Earth and they were honor bound to celebrate it.

Well, there was no point in not taking advantage of a good thing. Portlanders in a good mood meant plenty of change in my jar. I wished I still had my guitar. A few months back I'd been cornered by a speed freak with a switchblade in a back alley downtown. He gave me a choice: the guitar or my life. Needless to say, I chose my life, but I won't pretend it didn't take me a couple of minutes to decide. But at least I could sing; how well is up to debate. But it was something, anyway.

The coins began to clink into my jar almost immediately. It looked like it would be a good day.
As I started a second song, a small shadow fell over me. I looked up to see a small girl staring at me intensely. She couldn't have been more than ten, with scraggly dirty blonde hair, enormous brown eyes, and she was watching me as if I were Saturday morning cartoons and the circus all rolled into one. By the looks of her worn t-shirt and too small jeans she wasn't much better off than I was.